beyond the sycamore tree

​over and beyond the sycamore tree
your darling sits and waits for me:
her burgundy dress is now a pale white,
a ghost is shivering in your sight;

trembling hands write around the curving stones,
her feet, her eyes, her hands all bones,
seem to float with the scenery: too silent,
her lips stutter of the blood spilt, too violent;

in the stillness of the Earth that fateful day,
her heart thumped slow, the bugs flew away:
your stairs creaked and begged to jump at the chance:
the ghost is two ghosts now, and both of them prance

over and beyond the sycamore tree
where your darling sits and waits for me,
her burgundy dress is now a pale white
and two ghosts are shivering in your sight,

under the Earth, in the sea, a withering frame
from the hills in our dreams is to take the blame
of the forgotten scent of a burning house
where two men, a woman, pale white, arouse

from their act of tyranny, love and shame;
there’s blood on four hands, and fire to blame:
the two ghosts sit and wait alongside
flaming locks of two hearts, one a bride

over and beyond the sycamore tree
your darling sits and waits for me:
her burgundy dress is now a pale white,
the ghosts no longer in your sight,

when the roots of them find the deeper Earth
there will be the scent of us in their hearth:
two ghosts and a dead man who left his fate
to the branch that mustn’t break of his weight

and the fruit which smiles of him will bear first
the paleness of his skin, and then the blood of his thirst,
of lovers who forgot the memories of trust
with the delicate noose of a looming lust

over and beyond the sycamore tree
your darling sits and waits for me:
her burgundy dress is torn, her torso unzipped
as the red of the fruit finally catches my lips.